


Take This Night

by kaesaria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Belly Rubs, Dark, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Tony Stark as the Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony had been a child when HYDRA took him; when they stole him from his parents to twist and mold into their weapon.<br/>_____<br/>Written in response <a href="https://cazdinal.tumblr.com/">cazdinal</a>’s prompt on tumblr asking for Bucky/Tony with Tony as the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take This Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cazdinal](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cazdinal).



> The WS!Tony 'verse is a collaboration with Caz, who came up with the idea in her prompt and then was up for all kinds of awesome brainstorming and world-building. We’ve got a whole headcanon going now and this is the first part of what might eventually turn into a series of fics and vignettes and art. 
> 
> **Before you read, be sure to check out Caz's[gorgeous artwork](http://cazdraws.tumblr.com/post/148104221516/collab-art-for-kaesaria-s-absolutely-fantastic) for this story!** (ETA: There's also [this!](http://cazdraws.tumblr.com/post/147855128066/winter-soldier-tony-stark-au-with-kaesaria))
> 
> A huge thank you to [Tipsy_Kitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/) for another great beta read. ;)) 
> 
> _WARNING: Depending on how you squint at it, the reference to past abuse could include sexual abuse._

It’s the soft whirring of servos that wakes him.

Bucky knows better than to make any sudden movements.  He keeps his breathing steady, his muscles loose.  Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Bucky shifts a little, then a little more, carefully signaling his return to consciousness.

When he finally opens his eyes, the Soldier is watching him.  The huge, dark eyes are striking against the perfectly still, unnervingly blank backdrop of Tony’s face.  It’s the middle of the night and everything is cast in the eerie red glow coming from between the plates of the metal arm.

There’s a silent, latent wariness in Tony’s gaze as he tracks Bucky’s movements on the bed.  It makes something lurch in Bucky’s gut, even after all these months.

Then Tony smiles, just a little, and everything changes.  The expression softens his features, wipes away the grim harshness of the Soldier.  Suddenly Tony’s entire face is open—it’s so trusting and guileless, so goddamn _vulnerable_ , that Bucky half wants to yell at him to cover it up, to shield his terrifying exposure before something horrible happens.

Instead, he pushes himself up on his elbow, makes himself smile back, slow, easy.

Tony was a child when HYDRA took him, when they stole him from his parents to twist and mold into their weapon.  He never had a chance to grow up; he never learned that most necessary of adult skills—to safeguard his heart, even (especially) from the ones he loves.

The whirring noise hasn’t stopped; it’s a faint, agitated sound that Bucky is intimately familiar with.  The red gleam of the reactor under the metal plates is pulsing a bit brighter than normal.  It’s a signal, a warning.

Tony’s left arm is beautiful and menacing—a weapon and a work of art, like everything else forged (forced) from Tony’s hands.  Bucky’s breath catches a little at the sight of it, every time, no matter how hard he tries to bite back the reaction.  

Right now the vibranium fingers are rubbing steadily at the scar at the center of Tony’s chest.  It’s the source of the sound:  the chafing whirr, the soft scrape of metal against skin.

“You okay, babe? Another nightmare?”  Bucky keeps his voice level, low, but Tony startles a little, anyway.  He blinks at Bucky, the smile sliding off his face.

Bucky reaches out with his free hand and carefully curls his fingers around Tony’s metal ones.  Tony freezes for a second, then a flash of guilt washes over his face as he realizes what he’d been doing.  He lets Bucky pull at his wrist, gently, until both of their hands are lying flat, palm down against Tony’s belly, away from the now-irritated skin at his chest.

Tony never seems bothered by the many (god, so many) other marks and mutilations that litter his body:  decades of surgeries and lessons and pain carved and slashed and burned into his skin, his muscles, his flesh.  But there’s something different about the sprawling scar that tentacles out from the center of his chest.  Bucky doesn’t know what, exactly, makes this particular mark so special—he’s never asked, and Tony’s never told him.  It’s enough to know that Tony touches it whenever he’s upset.  Sometimes he rubs at it until it bleeds, if no one is around to stop him.

“I woke you up,” Tony says, a deflection.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky responds automatically, then he pulls his eyes away from the scar, glances up to smirk, softly, at Tony.  “Who cares about dreams when I’ve got something sweeter right here in my bed, right?”

Tony just looks at him with those wide, disconcerting eyes for a second.  Then, “Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, and he’s already shifting a little toward Bucky, his body going languid and inviting, before Bucky fully processes what’s happening.  Then he does, and he pushes back the sharp, reflexive coil of interest that sparks low in his belly at Tony’s appealing (automatic) proposition.

“Maybe later,” Bucky says, and he presses his palm down, firm, to keep Tony still.  Tony falls back immediately, his body sinking into the mattress under Bucky’s direction.  The sheets are tangled low around Tony’s hips, covering his dick, but Bucky can see at a glance that he’s not even a little hard underneath.

Tony still offers sex before thinking, sometimes, especially when he’s tired or upset.  It’s a fawn response and a defense mechanism, the therapists had said.  It doesn’t mean Tony’s not capable of giving consent, just that he gives it too quickly sometimes.  Sometimes he still thinks what Bucky wants is more important than what he wants.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks, quietly.  Tony isn’t always up for sharing his nightmares, his disordered memories, but occasionally he does.  Occasionally, it helps.

Tony is silent, and Bucky doesn’t push it.

Finally, Tony pulls his hand out from under Bucky’s and slides it on top.  The metal is unyielding and the plates have a hundred sharp edges, but Tony’s touch is agonizingly gentle against the back of Bucky’s hand.  He presses down slightly, almost imperceptibly:  a request.  Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t waiting for it.

Bucky slides his hand a few inches down Tony’s taut belly, then up again.  He feels the muscles twitch under his palm before they relax.  The metal hand moves with Bucky’s for the first stroke—or pet, or whatever this is—then Tony slides it off to rest at his side with a soft sigh of contentment.

Bucky keeps his hand rubbing in slow, steady circles over Tony’s stomach.  After a few seconds, he feels Tony’s entire body loosen, slacken with cautious pleasure.  The light from the arm dims to a muted glow.  Bucky feels himself relax in response.

For a long few minutes, Bucky watches the movement of his own hand against Tony’s skin.  Tony’s abdomen is entirely hairless, like his chest, like all the rest of his body below the neck—another HYDRA enhancement, one Bucky doesn’t like to think too much about.  Bucky’s palm slides over Tony’s skin with a smooth, practiced glide.

This is something they do more than occasionally; it’s soothing for both of them.

After a while, Tony extends his flesh arm, inviting, and Bucky settles himself close, comfortable.  Their bodies are pressed together now, and Bucky rests his head into the welcoming crook of Tony’s shoulder and neck.  He keeps his hand moving, brushing his fingers along Tony’s stomach, his chest.  The room is entirely silent aside from their breathing and the soft, electrical hum coming from the arm.

The sound had been strange at first, when everything about Tony was novel, threatening; when every part of him was something alien for Bucky to get used to.  But by now the noise is familiar, almost comforting—like the soft purr of a jungle cat.  Bucky is used to the nuances of form and light and sound that emanate from the arm; he reads them just as well—maybe better—as he reads Tony’s face, his body, all the hundreds of things he tries to say and can’t, sometimes.

The silence stretches for a long time, and Bucky feels his own breathing start to slow, feels his eyelids start to droop.  It’s nice to fall asleep like this; it’s happened before, and sometimes it means they can both sleep through the night.

“My parents are dead,” Tony says, suddenly.  His voice is quiet, but the unexpected sound in the still air jolts Bucky abruptly awake—his petting falters to a startled stop.  It takes a second for the words to sink into his brain; when they do, Bucky feels his stomach drop.

So that’s what the nightmare had been about.  Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, makes himself resume the slow, steady circles against Tony’s stomach.  This is a dangerous subject, one that Tony’s never brought up before.  Bucky’s not sure where it might go; how far Tony wants to (will be able to) take it.

Bucky has seen pictures of Tony’s mother:  a beautiful, regal-looking woman with dark, sad eyes; a lady who’d had to live long years clinging to nothing but memories and tattered hopes for her lost child.  Bucky had never known her, but all accounts said that Maria Stark was never the same after Tony was stolen from her.

He’d known Howard though; brilliant, billionaire Howard Stark with the slick one-liners and the razor-edged smile.  The memory of him—of everyone from that past life—is still sharp, still hurts.  The layers of pain there are deep, inextricably twisted and tangled.  Bucky had long been in the ice by the time it happened, but all accounts said that Howard was never the same, either, after he lost his son.

Who would Tony be now, if he’d been allowed to keep the life he was born to have?  If he’d grown to adulthood pampered and loved by his rich, doting parents?  Where would he be now, if his brilliant mind had been nurtured, cultivated, backed by the privilege and power of the Stark empire?

Where would the world be now?

Tony stays silent, but there’s a new stiffness in the muscles under Bucky’s cheek, under his hand.  He’s waiting for a response, Bucky realizes.

“I know,” Bucky makes himself say, finally.  Tony’s skin is warm, pliant under his fingers, his palm.  “I lost my parents, too.”  Bucky’s parents had buried their son in an empty coffin and lived on to die of old age, all while Bucky was trapped under the ice.

Silence for another long beat, then, “I didn’t lose my parents,” Tony says.

Bucky can’t stop himself from tensing.  He feels heavy, all of a sudden, like his blood has turned to molten lead, like his weight is pressing Tony into the bed.  A part of him wants to pull away, to give Tony—or himself, maybe—some space; but that’s the worst thing to do just now.  Bucky focuses on his breathing, instead, tries to brace for… whatever comes next.

“I killed them,” Tony says.  

His body is perfectly, unnaturally still under Bucky, and the arm has gone dark—the plates sliding together to block off the reactor’s glow, to hide it.

It’s not that it’s a surprise.  Bucky had known; he’d seen the videos, read the reports, had mourned and raged with Steve over the horror of what HYDRA had done to the Starks—all three of them.  But that hadn’t prepared him for this moment, for the flat, matter-of-fact tone of Tony’s voice.

 _I remember all of them_ , Tony had told him all those months ago.  Bucky hadn’t wanted to believe him.

“It’s not your fault.”  The platitude slides out of Bucky’s mouth automatically, mechanically.  He’s said it so often that the words are vapid, have lost all meaning—if they had any to begin with.  Tony knows the murders HYDRA forced him to commit aren’t his fault; just like Bucky knows all the kill shots he took during the war were under orders.  It doesn’t make anyone less dead, it doesn’t make the memories any less horrifying.

Tony just shakes his head though, a quick, sharp negation—that’s not what he was trying to get at.  Bucky falls silent, waits.  Tony needs to talk at his own pace; it’s the only way he can bring himself to say anything.

“I’m glad I killed them,” Tony whispers, and Bucky has to fight not to flinch away this time.  He keeps his hand flat against the now tense muscles of Tony’s abdomen, keeps his breathing steady.  He thinks about Howard’s pinstriped suits, the way he wore flash and charm like armor to hide his soft heart, his goodness.

“They had to die, so I’m glad I killed them,” Tony is saying now, and there’s a discordant, faintly pleading note in his voice now that makes Bucky’s chest ache.  He strokes his hand carefully up to Tony’s chest again, pulls himself up so he can see Tony’s face.  It’s expressionless, closed off.  Tony’s—scared.

“Oh, babe,” Bucky whispers.  He doesn’t know what else to say, and he’s a coward—he can’t keep his eyes on Tony’s tight, agitated face.  His gaze slides away, catches on the quiet, inky gleam of Tony’s metal arm.  It’s still shuttered, silent:  another defense mechanism.

HYDRA was careful, meticulous about teaching Tony the value of discretion.  It takes effort for him to close off the plates, to hold the arm dark, almost deactivated.  It leaves Tony more vulnerable, to a degree—but it also gives him cover when he needs to hide.  They were diligent about teaching him the importance of avoiding unneeded attention, Tony had told him.  Attention usually meant programming, punishment.  Pain.

“It was quick,” Tony says, “Efficient.  Close proximity headshots, straight angle, spaced seconds apart.  The man—my father—he was dead before he even registered what was happening.”  Tony’s voice is still flat, and the arm stays completely dark.  He’s waiting for Bucky to lash out, to get angry at him, at these awful things he’s saying.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second.  Slowly, deliberately, he presses his body closer to Tony’s.  He curls into the crook of Tony’s arm, settles his cheek against the smooth skin of Tony’s chest again.  He doesn’t say anything.  This is a eulogy, Bucky recognizes now.  Tony needs to get it all out before he can move on—before he can get past the hurt, the fear.  The shame.

Silence for a long beat, then Tony starts speaking again.  His voice is still faint, wary, but Bucky feels Tony’s flesh arm start to curl around his back, hesitantly.  Bucky hums a little in approval, wriggles closer.  It’s the proximity, the contact that Tony needs from him right now.  And that he needs from Tony.

“HYDRA—they trained me to kill, to hurt people.  They taught me to hate.”  Tony shifts, goes quiet again.  His body is still too tense, and Bucky pulls up to look at him again.  Tony doesn’t meet his gaze.  “I’m tired of hate, Bucky,” he whispers, finally, almost reluctantly, “and I don’t want to hurt anyone.  I don’t want to _want_ to hurt anyone.”

There’s a tiny break in Tony’s voice at the end—almost a stutter.  It makes Bucky’s chest go tight, makes him want to scream until his throat bleeds.  Tony’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling; his gaze is blank, vacant, turned inwards.

“I’m glad they were my mission, that I was the one who killed them,” he continues.  The words are low—they sound like a confession, a supplication now.  “I’m glad it was me—I’m glad no one else had to do it,” he says, “because then I’d have to hate them.”  

Tony finally shifts his focus to Bucky.  His dark eyes are wide, imploring.  “Wouldn’t I?”

Bucky tries to imagine a world where HYDRA hadn’t taken Tony, hadn’t hurt him and trained him and twisted him into a weapon to murder his own parents.  He tries to imagine life with Tony in a cleaner, simpler world—a world where the ghosts of Howard and Maria Stark wouldn’t be between them.

“Yeah, babe,” he whispers into Tony’s skin, “I guess you would.”  He turns his head to press a kiss into Tony’s shoulder, right at the edge of a long, curving scar.  Then he settles against Tony’s chest again, wraps his arm around him, holds him close.

After a long moment, he feels Tony relax.  The arm starts to glow faintly red again, dim, benign.  Bucky lets out a long breath, doesn’t let it waver.  He snuggles in closer to Tony.

 _Any world where you don’t have to hate_ yourself _would be better than this one_ , he doesn’t say, no matter how much he wants to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m using this to fill the _Role Reversal_ box on my Trope bingo card (Round 7).
> 
> Story title is from the song _This Night_ by Black Lab.
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**
> 
> P.S. I’m still [taking prompts](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/post/147474213969/prompt-me-please). ;))


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